


Memory Lane Pastries

by NiscuitGravy



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29429133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NiscuitGravy/pseuds/NiscuitGravy
Summary: He needed this to be perfect; Ignis Scientia would settle for nothing less.
Relationships: Noctis Lucis Caelum/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	Memory Lane Pastries

Ignis counts the beeps as he presses the buttons on the stovetop, preheating the oven to an exact three hundred and ninety-five degrees. He is just as restless, just as intimidated to craft this confection now as he was for the very first time. He can almost see Noctis behind the darkness of his eyes, his young face aglow as he enthused about the divine treat from Tenebrae. Ignis chuckles. The young prince was so nonchalant, a dispassionate adolescent who merely  _ complied _ to his future rather than pursued it. If something as menial as a  _ pastry _ would awaken the heart within him, then his royal advisor was up for the challenge. How nervous he was, arms full of rustling paper grocery bags as he scurried to the musty, acrid quarters that no proper monarch should inhabit. He cleaned it without question, then approached the oven. He needed this to be perfect; Ignis Scientia would settle for nothing less.

The blind patissier turns the dial on the burner. He counts each click as he accurately recalls the clockwise location of two hundred and fifteen degrees. Precision is the key to such an intricate delicacy. He’s learned this lesson countless times - no matter how many practice batches he made, none of his attempts quite mirrored the flavor in Noctis’ memories. While no dessert went unappreciated to a voracious, teenage sweet tooth, Ignis couldn’t rest with it simply being  _ good. Good _ wouldn’t win the object of his affections, especially if his aim was as high as the very Prince of Lucis.

He brings his trusty saucepan of water to a boil, feeling as the vibrating bubbles begin to warm his cheeks. He adds the sugar, then the medley of dark berries, and stirs with a rhythm set by the reflexes of his wrists. In his younger years, he’d learn to quickly trust his reflexes and intuitions. Whether or not the crust was objectively flaky enough, Noctis would smile. Even if one too many earthy blackberries made its way into the compote, a sleepy head of dark hair would find its way to rest upon his shoulder. If the topping lacked even a granule of the snowy powdered sugar, Ignis would still feel a timid hand brush his own as they walked the Citadel halls.

Letting the fragrant mixture cool, he carefully lines the circles of dough over the cups of the muffin pan. When he is sure (or as sure as he can be), that they are centered, he presses them down gently. Ignis is resolute. While he was never entirely  _ sure _ of anything, he had been sure enough that Noctis would appreciate the surprise that he’d planned. His knees shook as he arrived at the slightly-less-heinous apartment, giddy with all the excitement that a royal advisor should always aim to subdue. He opened the door, flicked on the lights and was greeted with silence. As expected, his Highness was off gallivanting at the arcade with Prompto, gaming away the bleak reality of his father’s decline. But tonight, Ignis didn’t mind such negligence. He’d spent the afternoon browsing upscale seafood markets for the freshest Barramundi filets. He’d spent the evening grilling the fish to an aesthetic charr, seasoning them with rich, golden tumeric. He topped the magnificent preparations with the final course - a bottle of aged merlot, and of course, the famed pastry of ever-elusive flavor. For the first time, Ignis did not bake the pastries thinking of the power he’d always ascribed to them. Tonight, the path to Noctis’ heart would be paved entirely by his own footing. The young heir arrived home, taken aback by the candlelit bounty before them. They talked, they dined, and (while Ignis was sure Regis was rolling in his grave over it) they wined. When the nervous chef rose to collect their dishes, Noctis joined him. Before he could even as much as move, two trembling arms wrapped around his neck, soft lips pressing against his. Ignis hummed, embracing his prince and savoring their newfound bond. When the two finally broke for air, he cheekily inquired about the dessert. Noctis assured him that his lips were far sweeter. 

Before he puts them in the oven, Ignis lines the hollow dough with baking cups and niche pie weights. He heaves a sigh as he remembers how much easier this process would have been with the aid of his eyesight. But as soon as such thoughts surface, he swallows them immediately back down. He’s seen many tragedies, but the absence of vision was a minor inconvenience at this point. Ignis has learned that the afflictions of life build upon one another - each larger than the one before it, until the greatest affliction of all proves itself in death. While he is no stranger to sorrows, his heart still broods for the tears that fell into his jacket what feels like a lifetime ago. Noctis was inconsolable, having just received the news that an appointed queen would soon be forced into the line of Lucis and crown him as king. Fogged glasses inhibited the sight of his lover’s rightful anguish - a sickening harbinger of the nightmare to follow. Noctis had undoubtedly  _ cared _ for Lady Lunafreya, but in no manner of which to take her as his betrothed. Yet, the fate of royalty was inevitable - he would be seen to Altissia to be wed, with Prompto, Gladio and of course, Ignis, by his side. Ignis stifled a tear of his own, silently berating himself for tempting such a travesty. Even children’s tales told of a prince taking a princess. It was no secret that this would happen. But matters of the heart are often arcane, and not a single soul (save for both their rickety mattresses) knew of their bond. For once, the advisor could not advise. Noctis pleaded for him to say something,  _ anything _ . And he did.   
  
_ I love you. _

For the fifteen minutes that follow, he whips together the sweet topping. If it weren’t for the oven keeping track, he’d lose his sense of time completely. Love had taught Ignis a great deal of things, one of the most poignant being the role of time as an arbitrary construct. The two had forced themselves to dismiss it, spending mere minutes discussing banal wedding plans all the while spending hours enthralled in one another. It wasn’t long before they felt compelled to let their two closest friends in on their predicament, who wondered why they hadn’t been informed sooner. But as they saw it, it had never felt like a long time in the first place.   
  
Ignis equips his tattered, yellow baker’s mitts, the ones Noctis had gifted him for a birthday long ago. The mitts are an artifact of life before the road that still live among the ruins of what was. To wear them now feels reverent, a proper homage to this particular recipe. Even if he regarded time as arbitrary, the Citadel had soon begun to feel like a separate life entirely. But Ignis had learned that his physical dwelling place was carnal. His heart did not belong to stuffy meetings or to marble halls, but to his ride-or-die party of four, wherever the winds would take them.    
  
Carefully, Ignis removes the scalding tray from the oven. He brushes egg wash over the hollow crusts, painting each with the loving care of an artist. Through the trials, the monotony and the utter chaos that was the journey to Altissia, Ignis poured himself into his creations. The beauty of the world around gave him a spark to procure his culinary craftsmanship. From simple noodles to robust curry soups, Ignis could make any meal spring alive with flavor, designing each one to warm not only the bellies, but the hearts of his beloved and friends. It was a distraction at best, but a worthwhile one. When the foreboding day had finally come to pass, the boat brought them all to Altissia’s deceptively lovely shore. Prompto and Gladio respectfully left him with Noctis to lavish in the last of their love. It was bittersweet, but the gourmet chef knew just how to ensure that the sweet overpowered the bitter. Under the bluest sky either of them had ever seen, the two bypassed the commotion and opted for a quiet gondola ride to the Maagho. They ignored the chattering and glances that royalty would attract as they dined on the lasagna that made Ignis question the value of every Gil he’d ever made. Too soon, the sun had set on that perfect day, the last of its light dancing in flecks across Noctis’ back in the Leville’s King Suite as he fell into a peaceful slumber. While distractions were once desired, they were now no longer. Ignis wanted to immerse himself fully in the last orange rays setting the bedsheets aglow from the window. He wanted to mark his prince from within, as many times as it took to believe that the body below had first belonged to him alone. The beauty of  _ his  _ world had given him far more than a spark; the love he and Noctis made was by far the greatest masterpiece he'd ever created. 

Ignis fills each crust first with compote, then tops them with the sugared cheese before baking them again. Without a single measurement, the ratios are perfect. He doesn’t need his sight to verify what he already knows how to do. Often, his soul’s intuition proves itself to be just as reliable as his other senses, sometimes even more so than his rational thought. He’d known that something was atrociously amiss the moment he’d laid eyes on Lady Lunafreya’s wedding gown in the shop display window. There was something he couldn’t quantify that bubbled in the calm tides below, a storm that crackled behind the sunny skies above. And he was correct. Within hours, Noctis met Lunafreya in a holy bloodshed. The angry gods had sacrificed the young bride on the very altar of her matrimony, and they’d have taken her groom as well if it weren’t for his tenacity to survive. Ignis shivers. His eyes will forever be marred by the petrifying images of a once white gown turned crimson, the remains of her organs spilling from her fileted, lifeless body and onto the dock below. But perhaps the most haunting sight of all was her mystical canine - whose name he’d learned had been Pryna - whining, sputtering and convulsing as she took her final breaths. With all she had left, she revealed to Ignis the horrendous prophecy to befall them, the destiny of the One True King. He felt his heart shatter in his chest as the dog went limp in his arms. It became evident what a wretched place this world was, and that its “gods” were just as vile. Each mortal human was a powerless marionette in their twisted game; he and Noctis were no different. Ignis was raised to be strong in the face of adversity, born to live and die as a steadfast servant to the throne. But no obligation of servitude had driven Ignis to catch sight of the decrepit chancellor looming over Noctis, to respond by forcing the Lucian heirloom onto his own finger and fight him away with every ounce of strength it gave him. He refused to see Noctis meet his fate any earlier than necessary, and once he’d made certain that would not be the case, he resigned to see nothing at all. A servant would call it a sacrifice. But his soul called it love.

For thirty long minutes, Ignis waits by the oven. Prompto and Gladio had remained hopeful, praying for his eyesight to be restored. But Ignis knew that the fickle gods would scoff at such a plea. He spent long, dark days curled beside his love, feeling his chest rise and fall as he waited for even the smallest glint of hope, but the hope never came. The nature of tragedy, as Ignis knew it, would continue to build upon itself until dear Noctis would sacrifice himself on the throne. Ignis felt the light of that hope vanish by the second, then finally fade to nothingness the moment his beloved disappeared into the legendary crystal. Now everything was darker than ever before.

Finally, the oven’s ding tells him that the pies are now a golden-brown. He equips the mitts once more, repeating the process of removing them from the heat. He dusts each with powdered sugar, then lifts each delicate treat from the divots in the pan and onto a tray. For many years, Ignis yearned for a miracle to open his eyes and see once more. At the same time, he appreciated the endless distraction that came with learning to hone his other four senses to perform daily tasks. Such a pursuit made it difficult to wallow in his desolation. His heart was far less burdened when he spent so much time training with his daggers and practicing how to cast spells without sight. The memories of where buttons on the stove were located were much less painful than those of the last time he moved inside of Noctis, slowly and tenderly consummating their devotion to one another before entering a decade void of each other’s touch.

Ignis inhales deeply, forgetting even to remove his mitts before biting into the dessert with the impatience of a child. The royal advisor had always been a man of staunch composure, but it all fell away the hour that Noctis finally returned to his arms. Without a second to spare, Ignis held close no longer the prince, but the king. Noctis ran curious hands over every inch of Ignis’ scarred face, as if seeing it with his eyes alone was not enough. Ignis reciprocated, reaching out to feel soft stubble cover his distinctive face. Noctis crooned as he leaned into the caress of his beloved. The spiked ends of his hair now cascaded elegantly down his cheeks. Prompto and Gladio, the dear friends they were, allowed the two the final night completely to themselves. It was the intermission that crowned the end of ten years of yearning, but would then open to an eternity of grieving. Ignis used these short moments wisely, wasting no time in rediscovering every inch of his lifelong lover. Hours disappeared into nothingness as they made the most desperate, restless and faithful love that any two humans could. There was passion, and there was patience. There was discovery, and there was knowing. There was laughter, and there were tears. There was rouse, and then there was rest. There was pure love, and absolutely nothing less. Noctis pressed his longing lips to Ignis’, as if to never allow him to take a breath that wasn’t entirely  _ him _ . Ignis vowed that, as long as he lived, he never would.   
  
He hums as he savors his treat. The soft vanilla topping introduces the bold tartness of the berries, then finally ends with a flaky, fragile and sobering crust. Ignis swallows, feeling the delicacy fall into his heart instead of his stomach. Nothing but its essence remains on his lips as he is reminded of the finality of all things. The tears burn in his throat, drowning what is left of the sweetness in his mouth. He sinks to the floor, dropping each beautiful pie like each wasted year without the one who inspired them. His heavy heart still breaks as he remembers the fading sound of each step that Noctis took down memory lane toward the throne and further away from him. How could Ignis "walk tall", when he could not even bear to stand? 

The glow of the dawn soon floods the kitchen, and he can feel the summer sunrise warm his damp face. Each breath he draws is fragrant of berries, vanilla and all that he'd known to be of life. A reassuring presence surrounds the baker, reminding him that he is not alone. 

He is certain that this time, he had finally gotten it right.

**Author's Note:**

> Credits to the recipeh [here](https://antosenpai.tumblr.com/post/161401063252/i-made-the-memory-lane-pastry-from-final-fantasy).


End file.
